


to win a heart (go for gold)

by regret_not



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, We Got Married, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23186275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regret_not/pseuds/regret_not
Summary: Where Huang Renjun, silver medalist Olympic figure skater, and Mark Lee, rising amateur in the songwriting world fall in love, woo each other, and get married.(Not necessarily in that order.)
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Mark Lee
Comments: 9
Kudos: 221
Collections: 99' ft 00' fic fest





	to win a heart (go for gold)

**Author's Note:**

> written for 99ft00 fic fest, prompt #235!

“Marriage,” Mark repeats dumbly.

“We Got _Married_ ,” Doyoung corrects, shaking his head in disapproval. At his shoulder, his manager’s boyfriend and his long-time friend, Johnny, is practically vibrating in excitement. The grin stretching across his face could only eloquently be described as “shit-eating”. 

“We Got Married,” he only echoes.

“What are you, a parrot?” Doyoung looks and sounds exasperated. Johnny settles a placating hand onto his shoulder with a laugh, bumping shoulders with him as he stands in a _Let me_ gesture.

“You never know, this could be fun!” Johnny settles down into a squat in front of Mark’s chair, hands covering Mark’s knees. The warmth that bleeds through his jeans from Johnny’s palms are normally a comforting presence, but today the heat just serves to heighten his discomfort and does nothing to quell the incessant flip-flopping of his stomach.

“I don’t understand why management would put me on a …” Mark casts a lost look at Johnny, “ _Dating_ show.”

“Well, to be precise, that’s not exactly what this is.”

“I’m literally the most awkward person there is out there, how do they expect me to get along with a complete stranger, much less act like _husband material_?” Mark is babbling and he knows it, but his panic is not ceasing.

“It’s just pretend, okay?” 

Mark snaps his jaw shut at that and shoots a confused look back at Doyoung. This whole situation is absolutely absurd. 

“You’re just pretending to be married to this person for a one-month period. You only need to see them a couple days a week as you film, and you just need to go through the motions of matrimonial life. And then no strings attached, no messy divorce, no custody battle, you can wave bye-bye and walk away like none of it ever happened.”

“You might even come out of it one friend richer,” Johnny pipes in, smiling encouragingly at Mark. “Where’s the harm in that?”

 _Where’s the harm indeed_ , Mark wonders to himself. Oh, nothing except his own self-respect and dignity.

❆❆❆

“The nation’s sweetheart?” He scoffs. “Which pretty boy did they hoist into the spotlight to be the face of kpop this time?”

Jeno winces. “Renjun, I’m sure if it was just a pretty face, this Mark Lee persona wouldn’t last that long. Besides, I’m 90% sure Jaemin’s been obsessed with him since his debut days, and it’s probably for … good reason … ?”

Renjun does a spin, pinning Jeno with an unimpressed look. “It’s literally Jaemin,” he deadpans, not batting an eye. “We’re talking about someone who drinks coffee with, like, six shots of espresso on a good day and eats ramen _for_ the cilantro and not the other way around. Define _good reason_.”

Jeno shrinks away from the force of Renjun’s indignance and puts his hands on his shoulders in a comforting gesture. “Okay, okay, you have a point. But Jun, why not?” He lowers his voice conspiratorially and draws closer. “You need a track for your new short program to prepare for the next Winter Olympics, right? I hear that Mark Lee is a genius composer, with songs that top the charts for weeks after their premiere. If anything, think of it as a great channel to finding a song that your choreographer could create for.” 

Jeno draws back, satisfied. It’s as if he can hear the cogs turning in Renjun’s head, the way he falters at that.

It _is_ true that Renjun’s fought tooth and nail with his choreographer to have a short program choreographed to a completely original song. He wanted one that was locally-produced and contained traditional elements that would represent the country on an international stage. And what better than the Olympics to showcase both his talent and the musical artistry of his representing nation?

So far, though, he’s had no luck. His choreographer had told him that it would be _his_ job to find a suitable song if he wanted a program designed for original music. 

Jeno smiles. Hook, line, sinker.

“I think that’s good enough reason.”

❆❆❆

D-day dawns bright and early on a chilly September morning. Mark is ripped mercilessly from the loving embrace of his blankets by Doyoung, who threatens murder if Mark doesn’t leave sufficient time for his stylists to tame his bedhead and make him look “at least presentable”. 

He’s stuffed into the car before his brain even has time to wake up, a large size cold brew pressed into his hand. Who drinks cold drinks in cold weather used to be beyond him, but he can’t complain when he desperately needs the caffeine to kick start his brain. 

He walks on set, bowing politely to the staff and cameramen as he goes. Before he can step on site, a frazzled-looking girl stops him, wielding a pink-tinted makeup brush that she frantically dabs onto his lips. He sighs inwardly, but he’s used to being dolled up for interviews, so he doesn’t show his displeasure beyond more than a slight wrinkle of his nose. The set is empty when he walks in, a completely black background with high beam lights pointed at it, a white couch with more decorative pillows than sitting room, a fluffy, cream-colored throw draped across the back.

He sits himself down gingerly, eyeing the overflowing pile of pillows that look like they’re about to fall off at any minute. He arranges himself into a seating position that won’t displace any of them, shaking his leg as he waits. It’s a nervous habit that he’s tried to correct many times, but to no avail.

Uncertain glances around the set show that the staff and crew are milling around, clearly waiting for the green light. He presumes it is likely their co-star that they’re waiting for, given he’d accidentally overheard a hushed conversation the director was having on the phone, the man seemingly reassuring the other end that a small delay due to traffic was nothing to worry about.

To the right of the couch, there are high walls extending nearly to the ceiling, an enclosed space that leads off to who knows where. There is just a door in the wall, and Mark concludes that that is likely the “home sweet home” that is going to be he and his co-star’s. 

He’s about ready to walk up to a staff member and ask them if there’s anything he should be doing when there is a flurry of commotion from the direction of the fitting rooms.

He hears a clear, projected, “Please take care of me!” and a chorus of assent from the staff before a boy? – no, a man – walks on set.

He has a very slim build, all slender ankles and wrists, lithe, with a physique that would certainly put anyone standing next to him to shame. His hair is a startling shade of gray (though the blonde mop on his own head doesn’t put him in any place to make such a remark), turning silver under the intensity of the high-beam lights of the studio.

His face is bright, almost boyish, elf-like in its innocence.

His eyes meet Mark’s, glittering in the light, and his expression transforms from one of slight nervousness to a smile.

Mark thinks to himself that all the photos that he had been able to find on Google Images does him no justice.

“Hello!”

The man stands a couple feet away and bows politely to him. Mark rises from the couch haltingly and dips into a deep bow as well. Formalities are formalities.

Luckily, the two of them don’t get caught into some impromptu bowing contest, though they both return a bow each before Mark gestures to the couch for them to sit.

They settle down, a safe foot of distance apart. Mark feels like they’re both sizing each other up a bit, testing the waters and seeing who would speak first. 

“I’m Huang Renjun,” the other man smiles, eyes oddly sharp and smile if not a shade more.

“Mark Lee,” he nods back, unsure where to continue.

“I skate,” Renjun offers. “Competitive figure skating.”

“I know.”

Inwardly, Mark slaps himself. The conversation is awkward enough as is, he doesn’t need to make it even more stilted and add another layer of a bad first impression to make the filming for this show even more hellish than it needs to be.

_Good going, Mark._

Renjun’s face falters for a second into an expression akin to having bit into a lemon before it smooths out again just as quickly, and settles into a smile. The laugh that he emits, however, is a little forced.

“And I know you produce music. A talented producer, I hear.”

Mark winces a little on the inside. To be precise, he’s a songwriter. Most people outside his industry tend to get it wrong, so he holds nothing against Renjun’s ignorance, but he’s pretty sure that it’s written right under his name on his Wikipedia page, so either the other man doesn’t know or doesn’t care.

“I make music, yes.”

“My friend actually loves your music,” Renjun says lightly, though not without a grimace he tries to stifle but ultimately fails at. “He plays it all the time.”

Somehow, Mark has a feeling that wasn’t meant as a compliment. It sounds like more of an inconvenience than a testimony to the likeability of his music.

He doesn’t comment or ask whether Renjun has heard his music. He’s not sure he’d like the answer.

“Really?” Still, he feels compelled to answer. “Haha, that’s cool, I’m happy he likes it.”

He doesn’t know how much longer he can take the strained atmosphere, so he nearly heaves an audible sigh of relief when the director calls for filming to start in two minutes, the crew and cameramen scrambling to get to their positions. The director starts making a beeline for the two of them, and he sends a prayer internally that things don’t go downhill from there.

“Mark, Renjun,” the director nods at the both of them, waving his hands hurriedly to have them remain seated. “I’m sure you’ve had the chance to make each others’ acquaintances?”

Mark glances out of the side of his eye at Renjun to see him nodding, and hastily jerks his head up and down as well.

The producers of _We Got Married_ had made a change to the typical scheduling of events for the new season; instead of having the participants meet right on set for the first episode, they’d had it so the two of them would have the chance to at least meet and greet each other to clear the barrier of awkwardness often present in the first encounter. 

“Okay, great.” The director looks quite stressed out, sweat beading at his hairline, not helped by the rapid fanning of a notebook held in his hand. “We’re going to start rolling the cameras soon. Mark, you’ll enter first. The house set for filming will be just through that door over there.” He points a finger in the direction of a door in the wall to the boxset that most of their filming indoors will be completed in. 

“There are staff stationed in there, but most are planted cameras. You can acknowledge the viewers if you’d like, but we’re going for a natural ‘look into the life of’ so if you can, pretend they’re not there. Take your time looking around. Feel free to explore the environment.”

Mark nods, feeling his nerves amp up a bit. 

“And me, director?” 

The director turns to Renjun. “We’ll send you in after a while. Once we’ve gotten enough footage of Mark dilly-dallying around the house, then we’ll have you two meet and introduce yourselves.”

Mark glances uncertainly at Renjun to see the other return the look. 

“How should the encounter go …?”

“Preferably, if you two can act like you haven’t met each other and are greeting each other for the first time, that tends to take well to viewers. But it’s not a requirement, you can behave as normal, as we’ll have mission cards for you two to go through to help break the ice.”

Mark can’t help it; he lets out a snort at “break the ice”, and Renjun shoots him a wilting look in response. He quickly reins it in and clears his throat, regaining his composure.

“The missions will take up a substantial amount of the episode time, so nothing to worry about. From past experience and market data, we know the viewers are much more interested in seeing the interactions and the chemistry build rather than any immediate compatibility from the get-go. So don’t feel any pressure to act like best buddies.”

Mark tunes out after that, as the director explains to Renjun details regarding his position and how he’s going to enter the set. He ponders to himself as for whether there will be any “chemistry” at all, or whether there will be any development for the viewers to enjoy.

So far, they’re not off to a great start, if any of the micro-expressions Renjun’s been making are any good indication. 

It’s going to be a long day of filming.

“So, how did you feel about that?”

Mark is equal parts surprised and confused when he hears Renjun’s voice echo in his waiting room. He turns around to see the man walk in, making a beeline for where he’s slouched in his seat, having his makeup removed.

Immediately, he straightens, automatically making to get up, but Renjun signals for him to stay seated, so he gingerly shifts to sit at the edge of his seat instead, spine ram-rod straight.

The stylist takes the cue and scurries away with a quick glance and a dip of her head at Renjun, leaving the two of them alone. 

Mark feels like a coward for wishing she didn’t leave.

“Uh, what brings you here, Renjun-ssi?” Mark feigns ignorance, pasting a polite smile on his face.

“Just Renjun, please. Besides, I should be calling you hyung anyways.”

“No, no,” Mark rushes to correct. “Just Mark as well. The whole formalities thing,” he waves a dismissive hand. “I’d rather not.”

“Okay. Then, Mark. The director thought it’d be good for our - and I quote,” Renjun raises his hands to draw air quotations, “ _relational development_ if we make an effort to get to know each other better in the beginning outside of filming.”

It’s not a bad idea. Filming would probably progress a little easier if they took the effort to know each other better first so all their awkward first-time fumblings as they figure out how to interact isn’t all on display for the rest of South Korea to gobble up.

“I think that’s … not a bad idea,” Mark says cautiously. 

Renjun seems to find his hesitance amusing. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought it was.” 

“What do you know about me?” 

“Uh,” Mark utters intelligently. 

“Sorry, let me rephrase that.” Renjun looks progressively more pained by the second. “About me in general. Something like a two-line bio that you would use to describe me. Who is Huang Renjun?”

 _Who is Huang Renjun, indeed,_ Mark thinks to himself. _A mystery._

“You compete in men’s singles figure skating. You started skating competitively at the early age of 10 and are a two-time gold medalist on the international stage.”

“Silver.”

“Huh?”

“I’m a silver medalist. I haven’t won gold.”

“Yet.”

“I beg your pardon?” Renjun looks taken aback, and Mark relishes in the feeling of having caught him off guard.

“You haven’t won gold, yet. But you’ve always been very close.”

Renjun looks briefly dumbfounded before he scoffs. “The gap between first and second place is always great. Being close doesn’t mean anything, it just means you’re still not good enough,” Renjun mutters.

“True as that may be,” Mark finds himself saying, the words pouring out, seemingly unstoppable, “you’re closing the gap each time.”

He isn’t sure where he’s finding the courage from, but he ends up saying to Renjun, “You’ll make it someday.”

Renjun’s expression is startled, mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish before he seems to realize and rapidly recovers. There is a faint dusting of pink across his nose and he coughs. “You don’t even know me.”

“But I will,” Mark’s traitorous mouth says. “Won’t I?” 

There’s a cheeky smile surfacing on his face, and he lets it grow in the ensuing silence, feeling a warm feeling spread across his chest as Renjun’s face darkens further, squirming under the weight of his gaze.

Abruptly, Renjun hops off the vanity table from where he was seated and stands up. He looks down at Mark, his gaze unreadable. “We’ll see about that.” 

And with that, he marches away, straight out the door.

He doesn’t look back.

❆❆❆

“So, how was first day of filming?”

Mark slumps onto the sofa in Doyoung and Johnny’s shared apartment and groans loudly.

“Horrible.”

Johnny pokes his head out from the kitchen, a carefully neutral expression on his face, and in an inquisitive tone states, “That’s an overstatement. Right?”

“No,” Mark sighs, “It was actually horrible. No, worse than that. It was disastrous.”

Mark’s face is currently buried into the pillows decorating the sofa, so he misses the look Doyoung and Johnny exchange. Mark hears the rangehood in the kitchen turn on, the regular clinking of the spatula against the wok and feels the sofa beside him dim in response to someone’s added weight. A hand lands in his hair.

“Mark, seriously, how was it?”

Doyoung’s tone is unmistakably concerned, even a little nervous. As his manager and friend, Doyoung has a duty to ensure that Mark’s professional career is on track, and right now, this is something that concerns his public-facing image, his lack of friend-making abilities second.

“I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re going to have to see Renjun again. Very soon, and repeatedly for the next four weeks at least. So it’s best we get this sorted out, now, before it has any chance to take root as a bad seed.”

Mark has the overwhelming need to scream into a pillow, and wouldn’t that just solidify the gravity of the situation? The fact that he works as a singer-rapper-songwriter and not as a member of a boy group just goes to show how little social interaction he has outside his personal circle. Even when he attends award events, it’s nothing more than niceties and brief small talk before he moves on. He should maybe be a little ashamed that he has no one else besides Doyoung, Johnny, and his fellow self-producing artist, Taeyong – which goes to explain why Doyoung pushed so hard for him to be put on a variety show – but he’s been content with it, and there’s been nothing that’s told him he needed anything more.

“So, first I laughed at a bad pun the director made because he said that he would have us ‘break the ice’ and I couldn’t hold it in. Since Renjun’s a figure skater and all that. After that, I totally did not trip over a cable which sent me sprawling. During the ice breaker activity, I flubbed up completely because they asked me if I had ever watched any of Renjun’s performances and I froze up because I didn’t want to lie but also didn’t want to make him feel bad and -”

“Mark, please calm down and _breathe_. Those are all such trivial things, I’m sure you’re the only one who even minds.”

“How would you know?” he shoots back, miserable. “I would have minded.”

“Well, did they ask Renjun if he’s ever listened to your music?”

The silence is deafening.

“Mark?” Doyoung sounds triumphant.

“They did. He’s listened to it.”

“And?”

“And nothing. He’s listened to it, that’s all.”

“Strangely, I think that’s even worse. That he’s listened to it and had no opinion.”

“No opinion is a good opinion!” Johnny chips in from the kitchen. 

“I gave him an uncalled for pep talk,” Mark mumbles into the sofa. 

“What’s that?” Doyoung leans in closer. 

“I gave a one-sided TED Talk. Oh my god, I literally tried to give an inspirational speech to a guy I just met when that was probably the last thing he wanted to hear,” Mark’s humiliation only grows with each word, and he tries to burrow deeper into the sofa.

“He probably hates me now.” 

❆❆❆

“Phew, that was bad.”

Jeno looks to where Renjun’s entering the rink, pausing from where he has a leg propped up on the side, stretching it out as part of his normal warm-up routine.

“Back from your first filming?” Jeno greets him with a smile, eyes dimpling into crescents.

Renjun nods wordlessly, propping his elbows on the rink’s railing and slumping over it, torso folding on itself, head landing over his crossed arms.

“I take it that it was a life-changing experience,” Jeno laughs.

“Tell me about it,” Renjun grits out. “I didn’t know that first impressions could be so confusing.”

“So, what was he like?” Jeno sets his leg down, sidling up to Renjun’s side. From the puff of air that ruffles the hair around his ear, Jeno’s stuck his face right up against his face. 

“Can you not be so gossipy? Jaemin’s rubbing off you in the worst way.” 

“Come on, you know it’s only because I’ve been assigned a mission,” Jeno whines, jabbing a finger into Renjun’s ribs. 

He yelps and scrambles away. 

“Jaemin wouldn’t let me live it down if I didn’t milk every last detail from you,” Jeno pleads, puppy eyes turned on full force. 

“There are literally no details,” Renjun retorts, beginning to skate away. He’s going to do a few laps around the rink before he works on his jumps. “If you want to milk something, go find a cow.”

Jeno, the little shit, easily catches up to him and stubbornly keeps at his pace as they zip around the rink. He switches from one foot to another, a quick flip of his inside edges, and begins skating backwards in an attempt to get Renjun to look at him.

“Okay, but was he cute though?”

Renjun stops short, creating a neat pile of ice flakes as Jeno speeds right past him. He makes a confused noise before swivelling backwards, approaching Renjun with a straight face.

“He was, wasn’t he.”

Renjun makes a face of pondering, as if considering Jeno’s words, before he shoves Jeno away with all the force he can muster. Infuriatingly, Jeno still maintains his balance and doesn’t tip over and fall like he hoped for. 

“The only cute thing is the fluffy pink leg warmers you’re wearing. Jaemin’s gift?”

❆❆❆

He makes a promise to himself that he'll at least try to get on Renjun's good side, make amends for the poor first impression he's made, and hopefully, as Johnny has predicted, emerge from this experience with a friend as a souvenir.

His hopes are not exceedingly high though. 

The next time he sees Renjun is for their official "first date", at a cute dog cafe in a highly populated area of Myeongdong. 

The dog cafe had garnered much attention on Instagram, becoming a popular tourist location for locals and foreigners alike to visit and take a picture to post to social media.

The date finds the two of them each deconstructing a dessert of their own; pancakes for Renjun and waffles for Mark. After a heated discussion of what was the more superior breakfast carb, the two of them had forgone the possibility of coming to a compromise and had ordered a plate each instead.

Renjun is a far better conversationalist, far more forgiving, and a lot more sociable than he gives himself credit for.

Out of the two of them, he is the one keeping them afloat, just toeing the territory of painful small talk, but never tipping into awkward silence.

“So, you’re actually from Canada?”

Mark nods, swallowing the bite of waffle lodged in his throat before he responds verbally as well. “Yeah, I grew up and spent most of my school years in Vancouver.”

Renjun looks thoughtful, pausing with a forkful of pancake halfway to his lips and places the utensil down before staring at Mark intently. “What made you decide to come to Seoul?”

Ah yes, the millionaire dollar question. Some days, Mark finds himself re-asking that same exact question, despite having made the decision some seven, eight years ago. 

He doesn’t regret the choice he made at the time per se, but it never stops him from wondering what could have happened, had he chosen differently.

But that’s all stuff that he files away into the safe in his mind. It’s way too heavy for the first genuine interaction of a potential candidate for “friend”, an opening which has not been available for years. 

So he opts for the interview answer instead, the standard-regurgitated one he uses every time anyone asks. “The prospect of doing what I wanted for a living.”

“Music?”

“Making music.”

Renjun considers him carefully, seemingly inspecting his face for any trace of dishonesty, appeased when he finds none. He averts his eyes down to his plate, where he pushes a strawberry through the whipped cream and back again, wading it through like a tiny wakeboarder breaking through frothy waves. 

“I think that’s admirable,” he says. 

Mark stops in the midst of cramming a large piece of fruit into his mouth. “Admirable?”

Renjun nods, eyes drifting up to meet his before landing back on his own plate. “To pursue your passion. To forsake everything you know to be familiar to do so.”

He tips his head to the side, cradling his chin in his hands. “You must’ve given up much to do so.”

Mark inhales too quick, a hurried breath taken in surprise, and the mouthful of fruit lodges itself in his windpipe. 

He coughs rapidly, trying to displace the blockage, and he briefly catches a glimpse of Renjun’s horrified expression before he continues hacking away. 

He feels a couple thumps on his back, a hand coming to rub comfortingly between his shoulder blades. It takes a couple more coughs to dislodge the fruit, and he sags against the table, both thoroughly worn-out and utterly humiliated. A glass of water moves into his field of view, and he looks up to see Renjun pushing it towards him. 

He does a double take, eyes roaming over the way Renjun’s lips are turning white from how hard he’s got them pressed together, his shoulders jerking almost imperceptibly up and down. 

Mark can only sigh, resigned to his fate. 

“You can laugh,” he laments, dropping his face into his hands. “This is a free circus showing, please go ahead.”

Mark hears a smothered laugh, and he feels the burn of a flush crawl over the back of his neck and over the tips of his ears. At least Renjun has the decency to look abashed, hand covering his mouth as he waves his other hand apologetically. 

He hears a whimper and looks down to see a puppy pawing at his calf, its eyes wide and inquisitive. 

“Are you here to see the free entertainment as well?” Mark asks the puppy, reaching down to pick it up and set it into his lap. The puppy struggles at first, legs kicking wildly in his hold before it settles down, tail wagging a mile a minute as it gets itself comfortable.

Renjun clears his throat, expression open and relaxed, any previous signs of mirth melting away to leave an expression of compassion.

Mark almost prefers the light-hearted air that was previously present.

But all Renjun says is, “We’re at a puppy cafe, we should take advantage of this. Less talking, more petting.”

“Aye, aye captain,” he responds, surprising even himself as he brings one hand up in a mock salute. “I’ll hurry up and finish my waffle.”

Renjun’s face freezes in shock before it loosens, the astonishment fading away to leave behind a tentatively growing grin. 

“Pancakes are still better,” Renjun ventures, smile still lingering.

“Don’t push your luck,” he mumbles, brandishing his fork threateningly as he goes to wolf down the remaining waffle.

Maybe this show wouldn’t be as bad as he feared. If there was going to be cute puppies and good food involved, he thinks that he could possibly survive this. 

“That was bullshit, wasn’t it?” Renjun asks as they walk out of the cafe.

“What was?” Mark stops, turning to gaze questioningly at Renjun.

“About pursuing your dream.”

Mark considers his options. He decides to go with being honest.

“It wasn’t the entire truth, but yes, it was true.”

“You could have made music in Canada. Why here?”

Mark slumps, his shoulders curling in on themselves. “My family wouldn’t have let me,” he whispers, defeated. “So I left.”

“So you chose music over your family.”

“It was too important for me not to,” he shoots back.

“We are the same then,” Renjun muses, eyes pensive. 

“We?”

“You’re not the only one who left home to find a place for himself,” Renjun murmurs, his voice quiet but strong. Empathetic.

“I know what it feels like.”

❆❆❆

This time, it’s Mark who drops by Renjun’s dressing room after their filming for the day. He hasn’t even changed from his outfit or removed his makeup, and he decides that today’s the day he’s going to take a leap of faith, that he’s going to try to be proactive, that he’s going to draw the silver lining himself on this looming storm cloud. 

He raps his knuckles on the door, a double knock before he steps back and waits patiently. 

There’s no response, but the door suddenly flings open with vigor and Renjun looks ready to storm out, but looks up to see Mark and stops short in his tracks. 

“Uh,” is all he gets out before Renjun grabs his wrist and begins marching furiously down the hallway, towing him along.

Mark stumbles a little before he gains his balance and follows behind Renjun obediently, unsure what more he can do except go along quietly to who knows where. Renjun seems to be on the warpath, with the way any staff they bump into along the way take one look at his brooding expression and steer clear away. 

Renjun finds the nearest vacant room and pulls the both of them inside, slamming the door shut before slumping against it.

Mark watches in apprehension, knowing Renjun and he aren’t nearly close enough for him to probe about what is upsetting him, but entirely unsure about how he should comfort him, whether it is even his place to do so. 

He goes for a middle ground; he moves himself to lean against the wall beside Renjun, looking straight ahead as he waits for the other to speak.

“I knew this would be scripted, but I didn’t think that they’d have a plan for that kind of thing,” he hears Renjun mutter venomously under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Mark decides to ask, tone carefully neutral.

“This show, that’s what,” is Renjun’s brusque, clipped reply.

He straightens from his slumped position and turns to face Mark. Mark is taken aback by the dark, irritated look on his face. He immediately thinks that it’s something he’s done, and he braces himself for the worse. 

Instead, Renjun comes closer, resting his shoulder against the wall and sighs heavily.

“Remember, these are the director’s words, not mine.”

Mark nods.

“They want us to,” Renjun runs an agitated hand through his bangs as he looks away, looking at anywhere but Mark, “hit milestones? In terms of physical actions that we do to each other.”

Mark is a little unsettled by the choice of wording, but the meaning of Renjun’s words are lost on him. “I don’t follow.” 

“Displays of affection,” Renjun spits out, anger not directed at him, but Mark still flinches at the ferocity of it. “They want us to hold hands, hug, kiss, whatever. For the cameras.” 

Mark stares at Renjun, feeling a cold shock run through his veins. This is what he feared the most; that he’d be instructed to do certain things that neither party wanted to do.

He tries to tamp down on the feeling rising inside him, but Renjun’s mirroring expression tells him that he looks just as horror-stricken.

“Let’s be clear: I don’t like this either, but management is insisting,” Renjun sighs, running a hand through his hair, displacing the carefully-tamed bangs which settle back down on his forehead, mussed up from Renjun’s repeated combing. “It’s all to increase viewership.”

Mark feels his heart sinking a bit. He had just begun to allow himself to hope for a genuine relationship, a chance of friendship from this show, and he’s essentially being handed a script that dictates how he is to act around Renjun, what things he has to display, what movements he is required to make by the end of each episode. It leaves a bitter, unappetizing taste in his mouth.

His disappointment and dejection must show on his face, for Renjun comes closer, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, if you’re uncomfortable with doing it, we can definitely speak to management,” he reassures, but his eyes are glinting with what seems to be … a glimmer of hope?

“It’s … not that,” Mark mutters. “Not exactly, anyways.” He looks away, feeling a little stupid and far too naive. 

Renjun examines his face a while longer before he seems to come to a conclusion and sighs to himself, shoulders slumping. “Okay, in that case, let’s establish an agreement.”

“An agreement for what?”

“We’ll do the stupid - physical affections thing. I mean, we’re here to fit the married couple narrative, aren’t we?” Renjun’s face is far from pleased, looking like he is grinding out each word he speaks with all the force of a dentist pulling teeth.

“It’s normal for a married couple to be affectionate. We can establish some comfort zones and we’ll monitor and see how we feel. We can start out by linking arms or holding hands, whatever you fancy more. We’ll check in with each other each time they ask to amp it up a level.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Mark can’t help voicing it out loud. “That we’re essentially creating a false impression of closeness for everyone to laugh and fawn over.” Mark can’t help the dismay that seeps through into his voice.

“It doesn’t sit well with me, yes,” Renjun says carefully, “but isn’t that what we signed up for?” 

“Well, yes it’s a “married couple narrative”, to use your words, but that doesn’t mean we have to, I don’t know, perform fanservice?” 

Renjun tilts his head, eyes swimming with confusion before he parrots back at him, “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“I just,” Mark feels dumber by the second. Was he the only one who ignorantly willed for things to be different? “Thought that maybe things wouldn’t be as fake as everyone speculates it to be. That maybe everything we see on screen still has a grain of truth, a real friendship to back it up. That the show still gives the opportunity for people to meet and organically form a genuine friendship.”

“You really thought so?” Mark hears the incredulity in Renjun’s voice, the almost degrading way he laughs, devoid of mirth. He supposes he is laughable, gullible enough to believe in the brightly-saturated, picture-perfect fantasies that are on screen.

“Have you even seen previous seasons?” Renjun continues. “There is not one casted couple that ends up together afterwards, because the media is full of contradictions, and there will always be people that cannot be pleased.”

Mark feels like he’s being scolded, shrinking in on himself as he listens. There’s not a single lie that Renjun speaks, yet he is beginning to resent Doyoung again, for giving him false hope, for convincing himself his naive hopes weren’t futile to begin with.

Renjun sighs, softening his tone. “So Mark, please - let’s make the most of this filming and help each other out? We both know we’re not here of our own accord, that it was likely our management that pushed us to attend. So let’s play this role we’re given and show viewers what they want.”

“Can you do that?”

Mark feels like he’s suffered a crushing defeat; like he’s given a part of himself away but received nothing in return. But it’s not like he had anything to lose in the first place, so why does he feel like he’s lost?

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

❆❆❆

“So, what’s on the agenda today?”

Mark glances down at the inconspicuous card in his hand containing his death sentence and breathes out. He watches his breath fog up in the air, a murky cloud dissipating in the wind. If only he could follow suit and evaporate away like that. 

“We’re cooking,” Mark replies, forcing his voice to be bright and enthusiastic, the exact foil to what he’s feeling inside. 

“Let’s get fresh ingredients,” Renjun sings merrily, eyes glittering in genuine anticipation. “There’s a farmer’s market nearby, let’s go!”

Renjun threads his arm through Mark’s, linking them together firmly as he tugs them towards their destination. 

Mark’s still not quite used to the physical closeness aspect of this, always staring a tad too long at the point of contact until Renjun has to, quite literally, snap him out of it. 

He wonders when it started feeling weird to walk side by side with Renjun without being attached together by some part of their body. 

“Stop looking like your dog died,” Renjun hisses under his breath, a hand covering the mic hanging on the neckline of his shirt. He digs a subtle elbow into his side. “Does the thought of going to a farmer’s market abhor you that much?”

“No,” Mark hisses back. “The thought of cooking does.”

Renjun promptly chokes on his spit, breaking into a fit of coughs. Mark pats him on the back unsympathetically, waiting it out. He can already sense a sharp-tongued retort coming his way.

“And here I thought that you were a self-sufficient, capable husband,” Renjun wheezes, hand falling away from the mic as he speaks loudly enough for the cameraman trailing them from behind to hear. 

“Does the mere prospect of cooking make you quake in your bones?” Renjun’s tone is clearly meant to be mocking, but the way he dances away from Mark, a laugh bubbling in his voice, is enough for Mark to forgive his poking fun. He can take some light-hearted roasting; he’s used to it. 

“I’m positively terrified,” he replies with a sarcastic eye-roll of his own.

When they arrive at the market, Renjun takes the wheel. They have a comprehensive list of all the ingredients they need to gather before they can head back, and Renjun pulls them to a map before they can start off on a wild goose chase. 

However, this does absolutely nothing to prevent them from being sidetracked, because the farmer’s market offers far more delicacies and overwhelmingly interesting things than either of them could have anticipated for. 

Renjun pulls them this way and that, pointing out displays of everything from salted mackerel to sugar candy to dried bouquets of flowers, flitting from booth to booth, attention being pulled in a hundred different directions from the overwhelming amount of sensory information being tossed at them.

Renjun hasn’t felt this excited in a while, so he hopes Mark will excuse him for behaving akin to a child, with an attention span equally as short.

“My, my, are the two of you filming for something?”

Renjun glances up from where he’s inspecting the potatoes to a wizened woman with a colorful headscarf wrapped over her snowy-white hair. She’s smiling fondly, her eyes squinted against the bright September sun, crow’s feet prominent at the corners of her eyes. Just looking at her makes Renjun want to smile too, so he does.

“Yes, halmeoni,” Mark responds for the both of them. 

“What is the show?”

The two of them exchange an awkward, uncomfortable look. While it’s more or less become widely accepted in South Korean society for there to be same-sex couples, with much less vocal objection and disapproval that before, it is still hard to gauge if the older generations feel the same. 

“We’re …” Mark starts, shooting Renjun a panicked look.

Renjun would help him out if he wasn’t just as at a loss for what to say. 

“Well, they find idols and stars in different industries,” he begins, before realizing he had not, in fact, planned where he was going with this.

“It’s a rooming show,” Mark interrupts. _An alibi._ “We live together and do some activities, and viewers get to see how two strangers develop a … relationship.” 

“Ah,” the woman nods, still smiling pleasantly. “I see. And today you are visiting a market?”

“Yes,” Renjun answers, hastily. “We’re making a Western-style brunch.”

“I thought I was mistaken,” she tells them rather cheerfully. “I thought I’d finally met two guys who were together in _that_ kind of relationship. I was going to say that you two are very cute together.”

Renjun stares at the old woman, feeling his face begin to heat up. 

_What?_

Mark seems just at a loss, staring at the old woman before turning slowly to direct the same startled look on Renjun. He blinks, and then a sense of determination seems to come over his face. 

Renjun feels a touch to his hand and nearly jumps a foot. He looks down to see Mark grip his free hand and twine their fingers together. 

“Yes, halmeoni, that is the kind of relationship we are in,” Mark says firmly, though he is blushing as red as the tomatoes that the old woman is selling. “We’re husbands.”

“Ah,” the old woman says, looking more pleased by the second. “Congratulations then! I thought you two had the look of a married couple.” She smiles at them warmly and indicates the potatoes Renjun is still gripping in his hand. “Take a couple extra,” she admonishes, handing him a plastic bag. “You have to make sure you eat more, child, look at how little meat you have on your bones.”

She then turns a look of disapproval to Mark, flapping a scandalized hand in his direction. “You ought to make sure that your husband eats better!”

Renjun grips the potatoes in his hand harder, feeling himself blush at the word “husband”. He glances up at Mark through his eyelashes, watching the way he rubs the back of his neck as he dutifully listens to the old woman’s scoldings, and looks away, feeling his heart go haywire. 

_Stupid Mark._

“Mark, what are you doing.” 

Mark stops short, broken eggshells in his hand as he turns around stiffly, pulling his lips up into the best attempt at a smile he can muster. 

“The eggs? I’m frying the eggs …?” 

Renjun stares at him, kind of horrified and completely disbelieving. Then, he slowly bends over, slowly descending towards the floor until he’s in a squat on the floor, head buried in his arms.

Alarmed, Mark drops his spatula and sprints to where Renjun’s collapsed to the floor and kneels in front of him, hands fluttering around uncertainly, unsure where to put his hands. 

“Renjun, are you okay,” Mark panics, feeling his heart thud heavily in his chest as his palms become clammy with cold sweat. He isn’t sure what happened, whether Renjun’s having an allergic reaction or if he fainted -

“Calm down,” comes the muffled reply. “I just need a second. To recuperate.”

“Is it allergies?” Mark blurts out, his one-track mind going into overdrive. 

“Yes,” Renjun hiccups. When he raises his head, Mark expects the worst; a flushed face, a runny nose, gasping breaths, an immediate need to call for an Epi-pen - but instead, Renjun’s eyes are sparkling with mirth and his mouth is undoubtedly stretched into a - smile? that he is clearly trying to supress. 

“The one thing I’m allergic to is your stupidity.” 

Mark falls back onto his butt, a little wounded but mostly relieved, which causes Renjun to chortle, shaking his head. 

“Have you ever fried an egg before, Mark Lee.”

“Of course I have!” 

“Right, and you always put the egg into the pan before oil.” 

“... I don’t put oil.” 

Renjun’s now staring at him like he’s sprouted another head, and he’s beginning to think that his intelligence has been questioned too many times in one day when a shrill, ear-piercing shriek echoes through the kitchen.

Mark jolts as Renjun claps his hands over his ears. Simultaneously, his nose picks up the unmistakable, distinct smell of something burning. 

For a split second, the two of them stare at each other, frozen, before Renjun’s face morphs into one of pure fear and he all but screeches, “The eggs, the eggs!”

Mark literally leaps to attention, sprinting to the stove where the eggs are blackening into a concerning charred mess and flips on the rangehood, frantically fanning at the thick puffs of smoke that rise from the pan with the tea towel. 

Through the screaming alarm, Mark spots Renjun grabbing a stool and climbing onto it to turn off the smoke alarm, disabling it before both their ears begin to bleed. 

Once the shrill beeping has finally halted, the silence ringing in their ears, Mark quickly makes his way over to the window and pushes it open. He takes a deep breath, sending a prayer heavenward, hoping that Renjun doesn’t hate his ass forever for being as useless as a dust mote in the kitchen. 

When he turns back, his shoulders drooping, he witnesses Renjun sink to his knees in relief, face in his hands. Mark trudges back and slumps over the counter, trying to calm his racing heartbeat, willing it to return back to normal. 

He only lifts his head when he hears a choked-off noise. He looks to the side to see Renjun drop his hands from his face, a disbelieving but growing grin on his face. 

Slowly, Mark feels the ridiculousness of the whole situation dawn on him and he feels an uncontrollable fit of laughter bubble up inside him. 

He locks eyes with Renjun and simultaneously, they both burst into hysterics. Renjun’s shoulders are shaking from the force of his laughter, palms slapping together as he wheezes. Mark can’t pinpoint for what or why the whole situation is so funny, but something in his chest unfurls, an unknown ball of tension he hadn’t discovered previously, and he feels so incredibly relieved. 

Once they’ve both calmed down, Mark gazes at Renjun as they both sit on the floor, a pan of charcoaled eggs and a faint smoke screen lingering in the air. Renjun looks back at him, wiping at tears that came out of his eyes. 

“In this household, I’ll do the cooking.”

❆❆❆

Of all things, they have the two of them go _ballroom dancing._

As if having two left feet isn’t mortifying enough, oh no, now the whole of South Korea needs to know it too. 

_Thanks, Doyoung. So much for “where’s the harm in that”._

“I apologize in advance,” is the first thing Mark rushes out when he sees Renjun that day. 

Renjun still has his hand in a wave, and looks understandably confused at Mark’s words. “What did you do this time,” he asks, a little wary.

“It’s not what I’ve done,” Mark bemoans, shifting from foot to foot restlessly. “It’s what I will _do_. And your feet will be the collateral damage.”

“My feet?” Renjun follows the line of Mark’s sight to look at his own dress shoes-clad feet. “I need those, thank you very much.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mark intones, dead serious. “Please sign a liability waiver, I can’t be responsible for the fall of your figure skating career if my predictions are correct.”

“Mark Lee,” Renjun enunciates, clearly and precisely. He is smiling, but it is not a nice smile. It is sharp and sinister, and he feels himself gulp at the intimidating aura Renjun is emanating. “If my feet are harmed in the course of today’s filming, you best hope you’ve written your will. You will be a dead man walking.” 

Mark finds himself too stunned to reply, feeling himself shrink under the piercing gaze of this five foot six man. Anything he would have said is quickly drowned out by the sudden cacophony of voices that rises as the director claps his hands and orders everyone to prepare for the start of filming. 

Renjun is whisked away by his own group of stylists, but before he departs, he stabs an accusing finger in Mark’s direction before he draws his thumb in an exaggeratedly slow motion across his throat, his gaze a daring taunt for Mark to try the truth of his words and suffer the consequences.

“ _One-_ two-three, _one-_ two three - Mark, keep your head up, watch your posture,” the instructor calls out. 

Mark stumbles a bit, just barely missing Renjun’s foot, and Renjun has to hide his laugh in a cough.

“How do you do this,” Mark hisses, exasperated. 

“Beauty and grace,” Renjun can’t help feeling a little smug as he does a skip-step that has Mark narrowly missing his foot and saving it from a crushing fate. “Is required for figure skating.”

“He’s beauty, he’s grace,” Mark mutters under his breath. “And he won’t hesitate to kick you in the face.”

Thankfully, they stop waltzing and begin to practice postures in a stationary position.

“Now, we’re going to try dipping our partners. Please designate partner 1 and partner 2 if you do not have a lady counterpart.”

“I am _not_ going to be dipped,” Renjun immediately huffs. 

“You’re lighter,” Mark retorts, and that’s all he hears before the world tips into motion and he barely manages to stifle a squeak. 

Immediately, the first thing he realizes is the proximity of both their faces. Mark’s nose is but a breath away, so close he can feel each puff of air across his face when Mark exhales. 

The second thing he notices, stupidly, is that Mark has cute teeth. He instantly shuts that train of thought down.

Mark’s eyes are locked to his, and he swears he sees his gaze direct lower, near his chin, before it sweeps back up to his eyes.

He gazes back, his own eyes flickering across Mark’s face, taking in his features. In the sunlight filtering through the high windows, it suddenly strikes Renjun that Mark is an incredibly attractive man.

They’ve gotten more comfortable, as time passed and they spent more time in each others’ company, to making physical contact with each other, but this is the first time the proximity has been reduced to point-blank range, and Renjun is finding it hard to catch his breath.

“And now lift,” the instructor projects, and the world blurs for a second as Mark gently lifts Renjun back into a standing position. 

“Now we’ll take a break,” the instructor says to a chorus of relieved sighs. “We continue in fifteen minutes.” 

Renjun is still reeling from the experience, arms loosely resting on Mark’s shoulders and their faces remaining close together. He can feel himself breathing heavily, can sense his heart racing, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

Mark looks back, mouth parted, before he licks his lips. Renjun's throat is dry.

“Mark, Renjun, you may resume your normal positions. Remember to take a break!” 

The instructor’s voice breaks them both from the reverie that they were trapped in, and they spring apart immediately. 

Renjun withdraws his hands to cross his arms, ducking his head to hide the sudden flush that climbs over his cheeks. 

“I’m going to get water,” Mark says, sounding breathless. 

He can only nod.

As he stands there, he sneaks a glance at himself in the mirror, his waist still warm from where Mark held him, his lips tingling from the inexplicable want for something more. 

❆❆❆

Week three brings both good news and bad news.

The good news is that his album tracklist had been approved by the higher-ups, and Mark’s album has essentially been given the good-to-go, as soon as he fills up spot #10 to round out his album to be full-length. 

The bad news is, as always, related to the show that has become the bane of his existence.

The director had phoned up Doyoung and informed them that because their filming schedule was in a bit of a time crunch, they were hoping to film consecutively for the next few days. Due to Renjun’s practices ramping up for a regional competition, he would be unavailable for the next week or so. The show’s producers had gotten together and devised a solution to the compromised time; they’d have Mark and Renjun film in their newlywed house for three days, having them live there for the duration, so that they would have sufficient footage to pull from. 

Mark can see the logic behind it, but he also feels like he’d rather wish death upon himself.

“Three. Whole. Days.” 

“72 hours,” Johnny pipes in cheerily, not looking the least bit sorry.

“You’re not helping,” Doyoung hisses, shooting Johnny a venomous look. He turns to Mark and says placatingly, “Okay, but think of the trade-off. You’ll have the entirety of next week off, which you can spend doing whatever it is you want, whether it is quarantining yourself in your studio to crank out the last track of your album or,” Doyoung pauses, “parking your ass next to the Hangang and cranking out your last track.”

Mark looks at Doyoung and deadpans, “You make it sound like I have no life.”

“You don’t,” Johnny whispers, unrepentfully gleeful. 

Mark deflates. “Remind me again why I even consider you guys my friends?”

“Because you wouldn’t have any friends otherwise,” Johnny continues. 

“Anyways,” Doyoung interrupts, forcibly pumping a load of optimism into his voice. “This will do you good. You’ve been stressed as fuck with your upcoming album release, so I’d say a three-night sleepover? Have some fun, live a little.” 

“ _Live a little_ ,” Johnny mocks. “Sounds like something Taeyong would say.” 

Doyoung makes a face at that. 

Mark would be lying to himself if he said that he isn’t the least bit excited for this three-day filming fiasco. Ever since Renjun and he got a bit closer, he’s been almost looking forward to seeing Renjun. He doesn’t really know what to make of it; it’s a strange feeling to want to see someone, to count down the days to being able to meet them again, to feel like time flies in their company - 

Mark chalks it up to the fact that he’s neither had the chance nor the luxury of having someone his age as his friend; even Doyoung, Johnny, and Taeyong, with the exception of Johnny, are people he’s met through work. The correct term for them would be “colleagues”, though they’ve grown to become friends, the origin of the relationship inevitably goes back to being co-workers. 

He thinks back to the last time he’s had a friend borne of natural circumstances, and sadly comes up with nothing. 

There’s perfect reason for him to be excited, then. 

_Right?_

❆❆❆

“I can’t believe this,” Mark utters.

“What’s wrong?” Renjun peeks over his shoulder from behind, raising an eyebrow at the queen-sized bed covered in a spread of red blankets and fanciful cushions to match, two sets of neatly folded pajamas at the foot of the bed, clearly as couple-wear, if the beaming bears embroidered on the breast pocket weren’t a clear indication.

“This,” he gestures helplessly, flailing an arm around. 

Renjun just laughs, skipping forward to flop directly onto the bed belly-first. He settles into the mattress with a sigh before turning onto his side and grinning up at Mark, a mischievous glint in his eye. “What, haven’t ever shared a bed with a man before?”

Mark pinkens, lifting a leg to deliver a kick to Renjun’s feet as he scrambles away, cackling. 

“It’ll be like a sleepover,” Renjun offers, curling into fetal position as he tucks into a neat roll to end up on the edge of the bed. 

“You’re so childish,” he laughs, nose wrinkling up in a mix of distaste and amusement. 

“Were you not a child once?” 

They decide to make ramen late at night, as Mark complains that his stomach will wake the both of them up in the night, with the way it is grumbling like a starving beast.

As Renjun watches the pot, bubbles beginning to rise and burst to the surface, he hears footsteps from behind. 

He turns around to see Mark leaning against the counter, hands on either side as he leans back. 

“Did you need something?” Renjun asks, dumping the noodles into the boiling water. 

Mark nods, eyes flickering to the cabinet to the right of the stove. “The salt.” 

Renjun shifts to the side to make room, gesturing for Mark to go ahead. “All yours.”

Instead, Mark continues staring at him, seeming to contemplate something. After a beat, he finally speaks, waving a hand at Renjun. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll get it in a second.” He smiles, but it is tinged with nervousness. 

Renjun stares a moment longer, an eyebrow arching at Mark. _What?_

“I’m,” Mark stammers, voice croaking before he clears his throat. “I’m enjoying - the view.”

Renjun squints at Mark, wondering if Mark has finally lost it, before the revelation hits him and he has to turn back to the pot to stop the snicker he lets out. _Very smooth, Romeo._

A shadow falls over the stove and Renjun is ready to laugh in Mark’s face when he feels the unmistakable warmth of a chest pressing against his back.

Mark leans forward, hands bracketing Renjun’s waist, and slowly closes the distance between them, from infinity to zero. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers into the silence between them, a sheet of ice threatening to crack under the slightest weight.

Renjun barely musters a nod, feeling Mark’s hair tickle the underside of his chin and resists the urge to balk and run away. 

Mark’s arms wind around his body, vines intertwining into ropes, and suddenly it feels far too intimate; a hug but not quite a hold.

He folds into the embrace, like fitting into an envelope, and basks in the warmth of Mark’s hold, trying not to shiver as his breath fans out against the side of his neck.

Renjun can’t recall the last time he’s been held like this, and despite himself, he can’t help the goosebumps that break out, unbidden, across his skin, sparking suddenly like embers that have landed on his skin. 

He’s always been called fragile, delicate, all nice-sounding euphemisms for “weak”.

He doesn’t, however, mind being held as if he were something precious, deserving of being protected.

Later that night, when they’re lying in their shared bed, clad in comfortable old t-shirts and wrapped in fluffy blankets, Renjun lies awake in bed, discovering that sleep won’t find him.

He turns onto his side and opens his eyes to gaze at Mark, whose eyes are closed, air whooshing out of him in shallow breaths. He catches the way the dim night light reflects off the curve of his high cheekbones, how his face looks relaxed and free of the tension normally present in his face. 

“Mark,” he whispers, quietly. A shout into the void, maybe. 

He’s not sure why he does it, whether he hopes for Mark to hear or not, and he lets the call die into the silence, ready to resign himself to a couple more hours of restless turning. 

Then, he hears an equally soft, “Yeah?”

Stupidly, he ventures, “You awake?” 

A shuffle, and Mark’s face focuses into clarity as he moves closer into his field of view, the distance between them closing to one foot. 

“Yeah.”

A comfortable silence settles between them, soft and reassuring like a weighted blanket. Then, Mark prompts, “Can’t sleep?”

Renjun debates lying. He mentally flips a coin; heads, tell him. Tails; feign sleep.

“Yeah.”

Mark hums, a low vibration that Renjun can almost feel in his chest. Then, Mark asks a question.

“I didn’t get the chance to ask, what made you come to Seoul?”

“Same as you,” Renjun answers easily, “Prospects of a better future.”

“Was it the future you wanted?”

Renjun wonders if he should feel violated, Mark somehow plucking out the one thorn of insecurity that’s been embedded in his heart since the first day he embarked on his figure skating career. It’s something he still has no answer to.

His silence speaks for itself. He’s afraid to look Mark in the eyes. But then, Mark speaks.

“I still wonder, did I make the right choice? Coming here, am I where I’m supposed to be?” 

Renjun’s eyes meet Mark’s across the foot of distance between them, eyes locking in. Mark’s eyes show the same shade of resignation, of sadness, of helplessness. 

_I know how you feel._

Mark’s hand creeps closer under the covers, palm up, and Renjun doesn’t hesitate before he puts his hand in Mark’s, linking their fingers together. 

“To this day, I still don’t know.” Renjun’s heart thuds, beating in response to his confession. 

_You’re not the only one._

“But I can say,” Mark says, eyelids fluttering shut.

“I’m glad I met the people I did.” He breathes out a sigh, eyes opening slowly to gaze at the ceiling. “You included.”

Renjun grips Mark’s hand tighter under the covers, squeezing hard as he finds himself at a loss for what to say. He can’t seem to find the words to convey what he is thinking. He can only hope that Mark can sense that he feels the same.

Mark’s eyes are glittering in the light, both tired and warm, and in a flurry of motion, Renjun sees Mark’s arms reach out before he is caught in the sensation of being pulled forwards.

He feels his breath catch. 

Mark catches Renjun in an embrace, pillowing Renjun’s head on his arm as he tucks his chin over Renjun’s head. He breathes in deeply, chest expanding under Renjun’s cheek and whispers into his hair, “Good night.”

The silence that follows is incredibly taut, and all Renjun can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat crashing in his ears. 

The only solace is that he is seemingly not alone, for as nonchalant as Mark looks, underneath his ear, Renjun can hear the pounding of Mark’s heartbeat, rabbit-quick. He hides a grin into the fabric of Mark’s t-shirt, turning in to tuck his head into Mark's chest.

Renjun is hyper-aware that there are at least three cameras trained on them from various corners in the room, that the lighting in the room is just bright enough for any video feed to be able to distinguish out any micro-expressions, but he can’t find it in himself to care. The staff had asked to film a “the newly-weds go to bed” episode, but he thinks that all of Korea doesn’t need to know all his vulnerabilities and any secrets he chose to lay out into the open tonight.

He hopes the editors have at least a shred of human decency. 

❆❆❆

He pays Taeyong a visit during his week off when he spends a few more hair-tearing nights in his studio with no progress. 

"Hey, Mark! How are you doing?" 

"Good, hyung," he replies, accepting the affectionate pat to the head. He offers a tired but genuine smile back at his friend.

"So, what brings you to my humble abode," Taeyong asks cheerily, arms clasped behind his head as he spins around in his chair. “Have you finally given in to your need to visit me after you realized you missed me horribly,” Taeyong grins, “or is it just another one of your songwriting concerns you’re coming to leech guidance for?”

“Hyung,” Mark whines. “You know it’s not like that.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Taeyong laughs before he indicates the chair next to him. “Sit. What’s kept you up at night this time?”

“What else,” Mark sighs, settling into Taeyong’s extra desk chair and immediately going boneless. He really needs better chairs in his own studio. “My album.”

“Ah,” Taeyong hums in understanding. “I heard the good news, by the way! Congratulations on having your album approved.”

“Thanks,” Mark mumbles. “It would be approved for release if I could just write my last track.”

Taeyong turns to look at Mark in surprise. “Your last track?”

“Yeah, I have one more track to go before I hit 10 songs.”

“Why don’t you just pull from that Dora’s backpack of yours? I’m sure you have hundreds of leads in that battered old notebook.”

Mark shakes his head. “I don’t want to use any of them.”

“That’s new.” Taeyong seems to inspect his face carefully before he smiles. “It doesn’t change what I always tell you though.”

“Emotions are the best source of inspiration,” Mark recites, eyes unblinking. “Your experiences are a well to draw from.”

“Yes,” Taeyong says, laughing. “And today I add another one.”

He leans closer and sets a warm hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Write about how you feel.”

“How I feel?” Mark squints back at him. “How’s that any different from writing about my emotions?”

“And that’s how I know you’re too young,” Taeyong tsks, brushing his knuckle gently against Mark’s nose. “What I mean is, write to someone. It can be your past self, your future, someone special and dear to you,” and here Taeyong levels a meaningful look at Mark, “but you can make lyrics of the things you want to express but don’t have the chance to.”

_Write to someone special to me, huh?_

Mark hops up abruptly, a sudden idea taking hold. 

Taeyong glances up at his outburst, unperturbed. “You have a lead?”

“I think so,” Mark murmurs. “I don’t know.”

Taeyong gets up as well, clasping a hand onto his back encouragingly. “Don’t hold back.”

“I won’t,” Mark says, waving a hand as he ducks under the hanging beaded curtain at the entrance to Taeyong’s studio.

“Send my regards to Doyoung and Johnny!” 

❆❆❆

A light knock on the door sounds, startling him out of his thoughts.

Johnny had made it clear, if the posts on his Instagram were anything to go by, that he and Doyoung would not be bothering him tonight. They’d gone out for the night with friends, red-flushed faces and the too colorful lights of a karaoke room in the background.

Who could possibly be visiting at this hour?

He opens the door of his studio and is shocked to see the person standing behind it.

It’s Renjun, clad in a sunny yellow hoodie and gray track pants to match, a cap pulled low over his eyes. He is positively swimming in the oversized material and Mark’s tired brain can’t seem to process anything but how cute he finds Renjun in that particular get-up.

“You’re – how did you find my studio?”

Instead of answering, Renjun just scoffs.

“Well, hello to you too, Mark. Are you going to invite me in or do I have to close the door and ring the doorbell?”

Mark steps aside wordlessly, holding the door open as Renjun strides in through the doorway.

He sets down a bulky plastic bag and unties the top. The scent of fried chicken and warm, hearty broth fills the studio, and Mark’s stomach grumbles pitifully in response.

The smile Renjun shoots him is nothing but warm, although tinged by exasperation at the edges.

“Eat up,” he chides, throwing a pair of disposable chopsticks at him. He points a spoon at him threateningly. “I’m not leaving until this plastic bag is empty and there is not a grain of rice left.”

“I can’t eat all this food by myself,” Mark protests, even as his mouth waters at the sight of all the various containers and boxes.

Renjun just grins, snapping open another pair of chopsticks.

He hops up from where he’s perched on the coffee table, dropping into another desk chair beside Mark. He scoffs.

“Who said it was all for you?”

Later, when the takeout boxes are all empty, not even a lick of sauce or trace of food left over and their bellies are sufficiently full, Mark slumps down in his seat, all inhibitions gone, and heaves a full-chested sigh. Renjun glances over at him from his position on the couch, also in a similar state, curled up on his side facing Mark.

“What’s bugging you?”

“Nothing,” Mark grumbles, lazily opening an eye to peek at Renjun before bringing his hands up to rub at them. They sting from how long he’s been awake and planted in front of his screen, staring unblinkingly at the taunting blue bars of the arrangement he’s been poring over for the past couple weeks.

“We might not be two peas in a pod, but I know you well enough now that I know that’s a lie.” Renjun’s tone is chiding, but his eyes are gentle.

Mark turns around to face Renjun, who looks earnest, cheek pillowing against the old, worn leather couch. God knows how many cookie crumbs and coffee stains this couch has weathered, but it is comfortable, and holds more memories and emotions than Mark can remember. Something about the open, vulnerable way that Renjun is laid out makes Mark sigh as he brings his legs up into his chest and tucks his chin between his knees.

“I can’t write the last fucking track of my album,” he mumbles, embarrassed.

Renjun raises his head slightly, eyebrows furrowed together. “What?”

“I’ve … hit a roadblock with the last song on my upcoming album.” He repeats, looking away.

“Are you suffering from a case of what they call “writer’s block”? Or you’re missing a track on your album altogether and you’re struggling with composing it?”

“It’s not –“ Mark bites his tongue, scolding himself for the irritation that suddenly rose up out of nowhere. It’s not Renjun’s fault that he’s being useless, much less his fault that he’s holed up in his studio on a Friday night, toeing the bridge between night and day because his brain can’t cough up anything that his producer will accept. “I have. Snippets? Like bits of lyrics and melody lines that I will come up with in my free time but nothing is,” here he heaves a sigh, exhaling wearily out his mouth, “workable. It’s not enough to make a song out of it.”

“Ah,” Renjun nods understandingly, playing with the string of his hoodie absentmindedly. “Either way, as limited as my knowledge is with composing music, you’re facing a seemingly insurmountable challenge.”

“I guess,” Mark hums noncommittally, “you could call it that.”

A pause, heavy with the weight of something unspoken. Then, Renjun speaks.

“Are you limiting yourself?”

Mark’s eyes snap open from he previously let them close and he stares uncomprehendingly at the ceiling, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. 

“... what?”

Mark curls his hands around the armrests of his chair, gripping tightly. 

“Are you telling yourself that you can only write about certain things? Only make a certain type or genre of music?”

Mark answers with his silence. 

He’s not offended - in fact, far from it. He’s always been a strong believer that feedback and criticism are the most valuable things that an artist can receive, that they are conducive and crucial to the continuous improvement and growth of his work. If Renjun has something to say, he wants to hear it.

“Do you think people will only enjoy your work if it caters to a certain taste? That it will only be accepted if it fits some predetermined mold it has to fit into?”

Mark sits up, gaze coming to rest on Renjun, whose eyes bore back into him, unflinching. 

“I’ve heard your music.” 

A stone drops into the space between the two of them, ripples extending out from the point of impact. Mark waits, scarcely daring to breathe.

He doesn’t know why he cares so much about what Renjun thought about his music. 

“Your music - it’s honest. Sure, you experiment with different genres and have expanded the variety in your tracks, but at the end of the day, your music’s lyrics speak of struggles, speak of love, speak of emotion.” 

Renjun blinks, eyes softening to show a glimmer of unexpected gratitude.

“Your music speaks to people,” he says simply. “But I think people also don’t want to constantly be reminded of themselves, of the irreversibility of time, or of sadder things that they have not experienced.”

Renjun pulls himself into a seated position, pulling down the sleeves of his hoodie as he hides his hands into them, twisting the fabric together.

“Don’t be afraid to experiment. Surprise them. Make them expect the unexpected with each new release.”

Somehow, Mark feels like Renjun’s not only talking to him. 

“Breaking those expectations and standards are hard, Mark. But you have to show that you’ve only displayed the tip of the iceberg, that there is infinitely more depth and miles to go before you’re done.”

Mark regards him contemplatively, and marvels at him, at the introspectiveness, at the unique, un-sugar-coated encouragement. He can’t help a tiny laugh, surprised.

“That was … you’re the first person to tell me that my music is stagnant.” Mark huffs, shaking his head incredulously. “It’s crazy, because people will often describe certain artists as having a “style”, or a “taste” and use it as a compliment - I can tell that is Dean’s music just from listening to it because it has a certain sound - and to us songwriters, it is usually a moment of pride, to be recognized to have a distinct style.”

Renjun stays quiet, watching him patiently. 

“But I didn’t realize that it is a double-edged sword, both a blessing and a curse. That trying to fit into a distinct “sound” could be the very same reason I’m struggling so much to have a breakthrough, to create something new.”

Mark feels like he’s finally breaking the surface of the water, seeing the endless horizon extending into the distance. 

“It was welcome, thank you. I needed that.”

Renjun considers him quietly before breaking into a small, muted smile. 

“You’re welcome.”

He then kicks out his legs and jumps into a standing position, clapping his hands together. Mark’s head jerks up at the sound and he can only stare at Renjun, startled. 

“You know what, that was way too much food,” Renjun groans, reaching his arms above his head as he stretches, his hoodie sliding up to reveal a sliver of pale skin. Mark averts his eyes, determinedly fixing his gaze on the carpet of his floor. 

“It’s going to sit heavy in our stomachs, how about we go exercise?”

“Now?” He can’t help the incredulity that seeps through his voice, disoriented.

“Yes, now,” Renjun rolls his eyes, sighing, and he reaches out a hand to offer to Mark.

Mark eyes it warily before he hesitantly places his hand in Renjun’s, and Renjun gives a mighty tug that brings him to stand next to him.

He turns his head to see Renjun beam, smile tinged with excitement and mischief.

“Now, we enter my territory.”

Mark has seen Renjun’s performances before, but no amount of pre-taped recordings or YouTube compilations could prepare him for the breath-taking experience of watching Renjun skate live.

The way he glides over the ice, all cutting speed and razor-sharp precision, each movement purposeful and filled with grace, not a single movement wasted – Renjun is clearly in his element, and Mark feels as if he is privileged to be able to see it so up close and personal.

He watches as Renjun glides backwards at incredible speed, tucking his arms in as he launches himself neatly into an airborne turn. He spins at dizzying speed, and Mark gives up on trying to count the number of rotations he makes in the air before he’s landed back on the ice.

But Renjun lands unsteadily, his left leg swinging out widely as he tries to maintain his balance, but ultimately topples over.

Mark watches uncertainly, unsure what to do as Renjun picks himself up smoothly and continues straight into another jump before propelling into a spin that has Mark’s jaw dropping in awe as Renjun’s entire body blurs into a spinning top. 

Renjun finishes, arms spread out with a flourish, and Mark begins clapping from where he’s watching from the side of the rink, awe painting his voice with admiration as he whoops. 

“That,” Renjun pants, breathing heavily, “was a lutz.”

Mark stops clapping, head tilting to the side in confusion.

“A what?”

Renjun chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s a type of jump in figure skating. I’m attempting to do four rotations,” he indicates this by twirling his finger in the air, “but I still haven’t been able to stick the landing.” 

“I’ve hit a sort of,” Renjun makes a face here, furrowing his brows, “athlete’s block, so to speak.”

Mark stares back, the realization dawning on him that Renjun is attempting to make a joke, that he’s trying to make him feel better, and a laugh abruptly falls out of him.

“Don’t limit yourself,” he says sagely, doing his best imitation of Renjun’s voice.

Renjun looks up from where he’s adjusting the gloves on his hands and pinkens, slapping Mark’s arm in retaliation. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He runs through another routine again, at Mark’s request.

Mark looks mesmerized, wide-eyed and almost child-like in his wonder. Renjun skates closer, watching Mark’s eyes sparkle from up close, and just barely stops himself from flushing from head to toe. 

“That was …” Mark starts, cherry red color rising to the top of his high cheekbones. He ducks his head, shy, before he lifts his chin and looks in Renjun’s eyes, a smile breaking across his face. “That was incredible.”

Renjun, in his career as a professional figure skater, has received his fair share of remarks. He’s received scathing, brutally honest criticism from judges. He’s received praise and reviews from the general audience. Had his coach inform him of all his little flaws and little victories all the same. But, somehow, hearing those words from Mark makes all the difference.

Any sharp retort that he normally would have prepared dies on the tip of his tongue, and he looks away, feeling a flush that creeps over his neck and flushing high on his cheeks. 

“Thank you,” he all but whispers, fighting and valiantly failing at keeping the smile tugging at the corners of his lips from spreading across his face. 

“I feel as if I’ve won the lottery,” Mark utters, still looking awe-struck. “That was, like, otherworldly. That was …” he trails off, seemingly at a loss for words. “Something else,” he finishes lamely. 

Renjun feels a laugh bubble in his throat, amusement beginning to trickle through the cracks of his flusteredness. “Anything else, judge?”

Mark snaps to attention, every inch of his face pinkening even further. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, eyes darting away from Renjun’s face. “That wasn’t really eloquent, huh.” He drops his arm down, and mutters, considerably quieter, “I bet you’re used to hearing all this, anyway.”

Renjun jolts, hand reaching out automatically to catch Mark’s in his, one mittened hand clasped between his gloved palms before he even realizes. “Hey, I appreciate the feedback,” he smiles, as warmly as he can, hoping the sincerity is shining through, that Mark can sense the genuity with which he utters every word. “I’ve never really had the chance to see people react to my skating in the way you have. I guess you’d be the first.” 

Mark looks a little startled, bobble-heading from his hand between Renjun’s and Renjun’s face. His eyes are wide as saucers, breath coming in uneven gasps, little puffs of air escaping his parted lips, and Renjun is more than a little endeared. 

“I wouldn’t be the first,” Mark finally says, eyes warm and amused, a smile curling its way over his face. “And I won’t be the last.” 

The faith shining in Mark’s eyes strikes Renjun as incredibly sincere, and he suddenly doesn’t know how to respond. He drops his eyes to his skates, feeling his face warm over. 

They stew in part-uncomfortable, part-weighted silence before the itch to break it comes over Renjun. And it comes in the form of a (potentially disastrous) suggestion. 

“Do you want me to teach you?” Renjun asks, the idea suddenly striking him. He can’t help the excitement that rushes through his veins, a smile automatically rising to the surface. He’s probably grinning like a maniac, and frankly, he can’t bring himself to care.

“Teach me? What,” Mark looks nothing but confused, eyebrows drawing together before he glances down at Renjun’s skates and visibly blanches. “You don’t mean …”

“It’ll be so fun!” Renjun’s already thrown any inhibitions out the window along with any qualms of maintaining some semblance of personal space or composure in sight of such an exciting prospect. 

“I can’t,” Mark’s saying adamantly, shaking his head as he holds his hands out to ward off Renjun’s attempts to pull him into his schemes. 

“There’s nothing you _can’t_ do,” Renjun insists, tugging on his arm to walk along the edge of the rink to where his skating bag lies, holding the extra pair of skates he always brings along with him. “It’s just if you let yourself.” 

So after multiple wrestling attempts (with not much resistance on Mark’s part), Renjun binds Mark’s feet into a pair of skates, a deathly-tight prison that holds his ankles in place. Mark feels like he’s going to become a penguin with the unsteady, hobbling gait of his walk. It’s made him infinitely clumsier than he was to begin with, and he shoots an envious look at Renjun, who still has a skip in his step and moves around on land with the same ease with which he does without skates. 

“Come onto the ice, scaredy-cat,” Renjun is blatantly laughing, not even attempting to hide his amusement at Mark’s clear nervousness. Mark shoots the most scathing look he can, but it’s hard to make it appear even slightly threatening with the way his knuckles are going white from the death-grip he has on the railing running around the rink. 

“There is no friction,” Mark grits out, eyeing the ice distastefully. “It’s just waiting to wipe me out. I’m going to break my ass.” 

Mark can hear the snort that Renjun tried to suppress but still escaped anyways. It’s unfair, he thinks to himself, how he looks so happy while he can’t even move a step from where he’s frozen. 

“Trust me,” his eyes twinkle from where he has a hand extended towards Mark, patient and waiting. Inviting. 

“You’ll drop me like a hot potato the second I step onto the ice,” Mark grumbles, but takes Renjun’s hand anyways, ignoring the skip in his heartbeat as Renjun grips his hand tight. 

“I can show you the world,” he sings, pulling Mark’s weight towards him so their arms are less ramrod straight. He adjusts their grip, slotting their fingers together and beginning to skate backwards. Mark nearly panics, but Renjun is holding tight, his smile reassuring, and Mark lets Renjun pull him along as they begin to glide along the ice.

“You better not make me regret this,” Mark wheezes as Renjun begins to pick up the speed, glancing behind them as they approach a corner, turning them around deftly and with practiced ease. 

Renjun turns back to toss him a grin.

“You won’t.”

That night, he lies in bed, a stupidly large grin on his face that he can’t seem to will away. His mind keeps replaying scenes of Renjun pulling him along, the warmth contained within the tight clasp of their hands; Renjun cheering him on and shouting words of encouragement; Renjun’s delighted smile, how he looks when he lets out peals of laughter that sound like tinkling bells; Renjun, Renjun, Renjun.

As if on cue, his phone vibrates and lights up his room in artificial light, and Mark reaches over to his nightstand to unlock the phone. 

He has one missed call from Johnny and a text sent a second later that simply reads, “Oops, nearly forgot. Have fun on your date with Renjun! ;)” The newest text that came in is from Renjun, along with an attachment:

**wgm co-star:**

haha hope you had fun today! i think your career in figure skating is just starting to bloom ^^

[video attached]

Mark can’t help laughing out loud at the blurry video Renjun sends him of failed attempt #500 of him trying to skate on his own, which perfectly captures his whole windmilling and the pure panic on his face that registers before he goes down. Even his fast reflexes couldn’t save him from the inevitable fate of crashing into the ice, and before the video ends, the video shakes with the force of an earthquake, and Mark can discern the distinct sound of Renjun giggling at his misery. 

If he plays the video a couple more times just to watch the end, no one has to know.

**mark:**

well, i had the best coach :) thanks for taking me skating!

sleep well :)

[edit contact]

**renjun:**

good night!

His ass aches something terrible the next morning, sore and bruised from the number of times he fell onto the ice, but he can’t really bring himself to care.

Johnny just tells him to avoid any extraneous exercise, complete with waggling eyebrows, and Doyoung nags him to not sit on his ass all day in his studio, which is all he really does, but Mark pays it no mind. He’s too busy fighting off a grin that keeps threatening to surface.

❆❆❆

They go on many more dates; escape rooms where Renjun barely carries the both of them through to the exit before the timer is up, Mark completely lost as Renjun speeds through the puzzles. Renjun still jumps any time the ambiance music changes though, clinging onto Mark’s arm in a hellish death grip. They visit an amusement park once, where Mark tries to coax Renjun onto a rollercoaster, but his clammy hands and the vigorous shaking of his head are enough to convince Mark that Renjun is genuinely terrified of them, and they go for arcade games instead. The night ends with Renjun hauling a huge white fluffy hippo-looking thing that Renjun affectionately calls “Moomin”. 

Most of them stereotypical, all of them cliche, but Mark can’t deny that he has more fun that he ever anticipated he could.

Before he realizes it, they’ve reached the end of filming.

It’s only been roughly a month, but to Mark, it feels like an eternity. 

❆❆❆

 _Write about how you feel_ , was what Taeyong had said. _Make lyrics of the things you wish to express but don’t have the chance to._

_Don't be afraid to experiment._

And he starts to write.

It’s nearly one when he puts down his pen, two full pages of paper filled with his scrawled, chicken-scratch writing. There are smudge marks everywhere that the ink blotted, turning the side of his hand a bruised gray. 

He closes the cover of his notebook. 

He thinks that he’s immensely proud of what he managed to create, and while he’s only got basic chords transcribed and hummed out on his acoustic guitar, he already has a plan of attack for how he wants the song to sound.

Smiling, he picks up the phone to thumb into Renjun’s chat thread.

But abruptly, like a waterfall of cold water drenching him to the bone, he is reminded of the fact that they are literally finishing filming tomorrow. He sets his phone back down, smile sliding off his face. Suddenly, even his rush of pride isn’t enough to off-balance the sobering sadness that comes over him.

Impulsively, he picks up his phone again and stares down at the screen.

He doesn’t dwell long on why Renjun is the first person he wants to know about his completed track.

He shoots a text out, a penny tossed into a wishing well.

**mark:**

if you’re free

meet me at the hangang in 30 mins?

“You’re heading off to competition after this, huh?”

Renjun turns his gaze away from the faraway horizon to look at him, eyes glinting in the night, reflecting the twinkling streetlamps. 

“Yeah. I head to Italy in a month, but I’m flying to Toronto to train.” 

“Bring me back a souvenir,” Mark smiles wryly.

Renjun laughs, the sound forced and not at all like the carefree ones Mark loves hearing. 

Silence falls between the two of them, and Mark feels like he’s suffocating in the quiet, in the unsaid. 

It feels like he should have much more words to say to Renjun, given the number of hours he’s spent in front of a camera for his individual interviews, spewing out thought after thought about the man himself, carelessly tossing them out without knowing what parts of himself the editors will release to the rest of the world.

For reasons unknown to himself, all those words have abandoned him today, and he can’t find a single thing to say to Renjun. 

Renjun seems to be waiting for something, waiting for him to break the silence first, but the thundering of his heart drowns out all coherent thought in his mind, and he feels like he’s drowning in the depths of his uncertainty.

What do you say to someone whose company you enjoyed so immensely you feel like you can’t ever go back to your life before you met them?

How does he even begin to put into words how important this past month has been to him, how much he’s learned about himself and his capacity to let people in? 

More importantly, would Renjun even want to know?

It’s clear Renjun has exhausted his internal brainstorming, as he straightens with a sigh, adjusting the cap pulled over his head and turning to face Mark.

Briefly, Mark thinks to himself that Renjun is beautiful. Inside and out.

Renjun meets Mark’s eyes and Mark is surprised to find that they look a little wet, glinting in the night, big and watery like the reflection of the moon on the Hangang’s surface. 

“I -” Renjun seems to have a debate with himself, shaking his head before he looks back into Mark’s face and continues. “I want to thank you. Thank you for making this whole month memorable,” Renjun falters, voice wavering. “For making it more than - than I could have hoped for.”

Mark dips his head, not trusting his voice to not give out on him. 

They spare a moment longer, just staring at each other. Watching, waiting for what, Mark did not know, but he was loathe to let the moment go.

It’s only when Renjun’s phone buzzes with the unmistakable vibrations of an incoming call that it is shattered, and Renjun looks down to swipe away the notification on his screen.

“So, this is me,” he murmurs, a corner of his mouth tipping upwards into a smile. It looks melancholy, sad, and Mark’s heart twinges at the sight of it, a smile that is everything it’s not.

He takes one step back, and Mark’s foot wants to step forward on instinct, his hand tensing as if to reach out, but he curls his fingers into fists, nails biting into the palms of his hand as he stands his ground.

He had to let go, sooner or later.

No dance lasted forever, and this wasn’t a choreography made for two.

“It was fun being married while it lasted,” Renjun laughs, a sound airy and weightless, drifting away in the wind. He sobers, eyes dimming. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mark raises a hand, waving as Renjun turns around and begins walking down the street, away from Mark, away from their fabricated marriage, away from Mark’s life.

For some reason, it feels oddly permanent.

“Goodbye,” Mark whispers, long after Renjun’s figure has disappeared from sight and there is nothing to accompany him but the merciless, biting wind.

❆❆❆

It’s the last day, and Mark hasn’t felt this nervous since the first time he’s walked on set.

Mark performs the song he had just finished composing the night before, the last track to his album. 

It’s a completely new composition, something entirely different from anything he had ever attempted before. All the verses are almost completely rap, with a melodic chorus. 

He had embedded the song with sounds that would be familiar to the both of them; the barking of a dog, the cheer of a crowd, the sound of whistling wind and skates flying over ice, the bustling of a farmer’s market. 

In a way, it’s an ode to all the time they spent together.

In a way, it’s a lament to all the memories that have already passed.

Now, Mark watches with bated breath as Renjun stands from his seat in the audience, face downturned, and walks to where Mark stood. 

The distance between them feels like an eternity.

Renjun stops short right in front of Mark before he raises his head and Mark catches the gleam of a tear rolling down his cheek. 

Mark raises his arms hesitantly before he curves his arms around Renjun, enveloping his body and burying his face into the crook of Renjun’s neck. 

Renjun lets out a sob, his fingers gripping the lapels of his suit, shaking with the force of his trembling body.

Mark can do nothing but hold him tighter, curling his fingers into Renjun’s hair and squeezing him closer to his chest. 

He doesn’t know why his own heart feels like it’s splitting in two, why it feels like there are invisible hands squeezing the air out of his lungs, as if Renjun’s tears will wash away everything they’ve built in the last month.

**Author's Note:**

> to the prompter: i'm sorry that this is being posted as a two-part story. i promise that, as requested, that it is an angst-free ending! please forgive me for the wait :(


End file.
